


In Perpetuity

by SandmanCircus, therewithasmile



Category: Soul Eater
Genre: Bioshock AU, Explosions, F/M, Gore, Graphic Description, Minor Character Death, POV Female Character, Reverb 2016, Violence, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-09
Updated: 2016-07-09
Packaged: 2018-07-22 12:53:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 17,851
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7440091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SandmanCircus/pseuds/SandmanCircus, https://archiveofourown.org/users/therewithasmile/pseuds/therewithasmile
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>1958, New Years Eve. What Maka Albarn was expecting was a night of dancing, champagne, and celebrating with the jazz pianist next door. What she got instead was explosions, riots, and more dead bodies than she’d ever seen on her operating table. In just a few short hours, the researcher’s world ended and a began anew – and now she has to do something, lest she sink, both literally and metaphorically, with Rapture. Bioshock AU, reverb 2016, collab with SandmanCircus</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to Julie (redphlox) for doing the wonderful beta work to help have the story make sense without any prior knowledge to bioshock.  
> There were some creative liberties taken with some of the characters, settings, and world-building lore. This was to keep the story smooth and to not introduce so many terms that wouldn't be relevant to the story. Any cuts or merges were made with the narrative in mind.  
> Please check s-puff's amazing art over on tumblr that accompanies this fic! Without her creative mind, this story would've never been born.  
> Thanks, and enjoy!  
> \- Sandmancircus & therewithasmile
> 
> warning: gore, violence, implied character death

The ground was shaking, people were screaming, and Maka found herself tossed violently on the floor. 

Her world was fuzzy, her ears still keening. Noise, noise, _so much noise_ around her. Her vision fuzzed, sharpening and blurring in quick successions. Blood pounded behind her ears. Her legs were on fire _._ She could taste blood in her mouth.

A hand grabbed hers. For a second, she froze, unused to the touch, too shocked and numb to notice a change --

His red eyes bore into hers.

“Maka?” His voice was like a fog around her, barely separable from the rest.

Her vision refocused again.

His mask had been wrenched to the side. White hair stood in a frenzied mess around his face, bits and pieces sticking in disarray, unkempt. He was hunched over, hovering over her, and for one insane moment she had to fight the urge to kick him away --

Another explosion. She might’ve screamed. He nearly fell on top of her, she didn’t know, she only saw his eyes widen in shock. The ground shook. There was more screeching. Panic. Hysteria.

She breathed.

“We have to go,” she whispered. Just the four words leaving her mouth had switched something on inside her. The bubbling fear simmered away, as if that was all she needed to focus. As if it were enough to ignore the searing pain in her leg, as if it was enough for her to not see the chaos before her.

But she _could._

All around her were people in dresses, running back and forth. Half the floor was on fire. The upper floor had caved in partially, debris spattered in large chunks on the ground. Blood, like paint, spilled over on the ground. Bodies. Dozens of bodies. Swathed in half-dyed fabrics and silks, once varying shades now only knowing one: red. Panic pounded in her ears, not originating from her, but from others -- she merely stared at the still-masked bodies.

Maka blinked, and nearly jumped as she felt fingers brush her hand.

“We’re going now,” Soul growled. She hadn’t noticed when he’d gotten up. Her hand throbbed as he tightened his grip on it, and she resisted the urge to ask if she could at least take off her gloves. He twisted and half dragged, half supported her a few steps, only muttering a slew of curses underneath his breath.

As she took each step, one by one, without thinking, Maka saw the destruction before her eyes. Flipped tables, broken glass littered in shards. Streamers left fluttering, what once tethered them nothing but rubble on the ground. Broken floorboards beneath their feet, bits of red carpet askew amongst the splintered wood. More bodies, mouths open in shock, masks hanging lopsidedly off still faces. The pungent smell of burning, blood, and urine.

Her eyes caught to the one statue in the middle. Mere hours before, she’d admired it - the man holding up the globe, a symbol of their city, flashing the bright neon letters spelling _Welcome to Rapture._ Now, it was as if it were cowering in fear. She glanced just behind it, to the limply hanging sign _,_ red neon lights still flickering as if in a mockery of the bloodshed it presided over.

  _1959._

 _Happy New Year,_ Maka thought grimly.

-

The stairs were crowded, so much that there was no longer movement. Some had resorted to jumping. Sickening crunches of bone, yelps of pain, and yet it was all one, homogenous thought: anything was better than being up there. Soul’s grip was iron, it only seemed to tighten the longer they waited. And then the person in front of them swerved to the left, hoisted one leg over the railing --

Maka turned away.

“She has a Plasmid,” Soul said quietly. His voice hovered close to her ear, deep bass reverberating quietly beside her. Maka didn’t bother turning to meet his gaze.

“Then maybe she didn’t just shatter her legs,” she responded.

The small talk wasn’t unwelcome, that was for sure. What Maka didn’t want to think about was how many of these people had the body modification superpowers. The thought made her stomach churn. Then she was _shoved_ \-- the ground fast approaching -- and the impact was fuzzy, her head spun, her cheek began to throb. Her ear rang and she spat out blood, and Soul was wrenching her to her feet again, and she walked. Limped. Maka wasn’t really sure. She couldn’t quite feel her legs. Instead, she wondered if that’s how the lady who’d jumped off the railing earlier had felt.

He set a brisk pace again, walking faster than she could register the pain in his leg. And then something clicked: the direction they were going -- towards the doors.  No, no no no, they couldn’t go that way. Maka knew. She didn’t have to see the crowd at the elevator to know. “Stairs,” she croaked.

Soul froze mid step. “Can you make it?”

For the first time since the explosions began, she met his eyes.

They were harrowed with worry, dark crimson only darker in the ruined lights behind him. They rolled down her body, to her leg, before snapping back onto her own. She didn’t want to look - she didn’t need to see that the black fabrics had begun to cling onto her leg, wet and sticky with blood. She didn’t want to peel off her crinoline to see her own exposed flesh bare. Her thoughts churned violently, yet the screaming and hysteria only pounded doubly.

Maka wrenched them away first.

Back the way they came. No one seemed to care. Her shoulders stung as people barreled past her. She tried to ignore the glowing white around her, ignore the hissing and the pungently-sweet smell of ADAM on her nostrils. She tried, and yet white still rimmed her vision, like a constant around her. Her right shoulder wrenched back again -- another colourful swear came from _her_ mouth this time, and she swore she heard a hint of a snigger come from Soul. She ignored that, too, focusing on the doors from behind. She kicked them open, the resulting clang muted by the chaos just a few feet behind them.

His soft footsteps padded behind her, before Maka flinched away from the way his shoulder brushed hers. Her shoulders throbbed, the sudden pain and realization of how many had bumped and carved their ways past them. Maka was suddenly _tired._ The dancing, the socializing, the _explosions,_ all a blur to her mind -- and yet she could see what was less than a gaping abyss before them.

He let go of their hands first.

Soul only snarled two syllables: “ _ATLAS._ ”

The single word caused a surge of emotions to flow through her, indiscernible as one flew seamlessly into the next. Annoyance. Incredulous. Sadness. Disappointment. Confusion.

She could only breathe one word.

“Why?”

Soul shrugged, an edge in his eyes indiscernible.

Just like that, her apprehension, her fatigue, was gone; replaced with resolve. They half ran, half fell, down the spirals of staircases to the bottom floor. The noise seemed to swirl around them, simultaneously above and below, and then there was another _crash,_ the sound of screaming - so far away from her now, faded in the distance - yet the ground beneath her shook, and her next step sent her hurtling to the ground. Strong arms caught her, brief, just enough for her to regain her balance, and then they were running again, a single thought on her mind.

 _ATLAS. ATLAS._ Maybe that was why she was running. She’d never feared that name before. It always invoked another emotion. Contempt. People who didn’t believe in progress. She’d known, heard the stirrings of the revolution. ATLAS had been a blessing to the poor, distributing food. Aiding them. And yet, she’d heard from her boss what he’d been doing. For a man who was so bent on trying to rebel against the ever-marching progression of Rapture, he too had some experience of Plasmids.

Just the thought made her skin crawl. If she had one, there was no problem jumping where they were now - perhaps ten storeys in the air - to the ground floor. She might’ve felt the pain for not even a split second, before ADAM began to literally reknit her severed blood vessels and torn skin as if nothing was wrong. It was all too spectacular, all too powerful, all too terrible. Her bastard boss may have marketed it as the future of humankind, and something about it terrified her.

Like _ATLAS_ did. Maybe she’d always been scared of him, in hindsight. The whispers of revolution and the knowledge that he had access to her Plasmid technology had always haunted her.

But if he were behind these bombings?

 _ATLAS_ was a monster.

She had nothing to do with monsters.

-

It took the last of Maka’s strength to barrel her way through the exit door. Her shoulders ached and she stubbornly blinked back tears of protest at the flare of pain that followed, but upon stumbling into the dim, artificially orange lights of the ‘streets’ before them, she felt herself sag.

For the umpteenth time since the first explosion, his arms caught her.

Maka couldn’t even form a thanks. Her body ached, her limbs felt like lead, and her feet _hurt_. Thankfully, Soul said nothing, simply resting his hand against the crown of her head. He allowed her a moment, enough for her to register what was just the barest traces of some cologne he’d applied hours ago. Traces of gunpowder and ash marred the otherwise pleasurable scent, and yet she still inhaled deeply, as if it’d bring power back into her limbs.

“We have to go,” she echoed.

For a second, it almost looked like his lips quirked upwards. And then she was on her feet, and they were running again. They didn’t stop, not when they passed others who’d collapsed. They ran past groups who cried for help, those clutching parts of their bodies that had been leaking red. Maka could sense something within Soul, but she kept her eyes forward. Now that they were moving, they were _moving_. What was earlier lavishly decorated streets, covered in hues of green and pink and white and gold, were nothing but muted and tarnished bronze, the hint of colour only dilapidating the setting further. The cheery jazz only seemed a mockery now, as moans and cries of pain littered the street.  And so they ran, as quick as they could, her peripherals becoming nothing but a blur, just noise as she _ran_.

That is, until his hand clamped around her wrist. “Main road,” Soul said, raising his eyebrow. “Bathyspheres?”

Maka stared. She shook her head. “Public transportation? It’d take too long. They only fit about five people at a time anyways -- it’ll be backed up to hell. The back alleys are faster. Trust me.”

He stared at her and, not for the first time, Maka realized just how _red_ his eyes were. Against the muted hues of navy blue and teal, they only seemed more prominently pigmented. His expression was unreadable, and yet he said nothing as she half tested, half tugged her captured wrist with her. And with that, she pulled them jointly into the alleyway, dimly lit with thin LED lights just barely outlining the tops of the otherwise surprisingly square and boxly buildings. Every step became slower, more tiring, and sooner than she would’ve liked, Maka sagged against the wall. She heard as Soul sat beside her.

“ _Fuck_.”

Maka couldn’t help the humourless laugh that escaped her.

How did this even happen?

It was supposed to be harmless. It was New Years. When the first explosion set off, no one was overly concerned. It was _Rapture._ There were even a few good natured laughs. After the second, though, no one was laughing _._ Half the ceiling caved in, and the screaming started. The rest of the explosions came after, coordinated, in different wings of the restaurant. It was chaos. She saw red. Blood. Limbs. Lifeless eyes that stared just beyond her shoulder, right beside her ear.

Maka breathed once, in, and out, and opened her eyes.

She could see it, if she looked above her. The tranquility of water. People used to fear what was at the bottom of the ocean. Not even a decade ago, people had begun disappearing. At first, she’d feared it -- aliens, were the main whispers. That is, until she received her own invitation. She’d always found it _fascinating,_ being relocated to Rapture, being surrounded by nature in its own right. After the first few years, she’d grown used to it. But tonight, as the chaos happened within the great glass walls that barred them off from the rest of the world, there was an odd serenity to just look outside. If she squinted, beyond the abyss that was water and algae, she could see the reflections of fire -- how ironic, she thought, seeing as they were so deep underwater -- dancing in her eyes. The screaming, the chaos, all of it was simply a watery reflection, rippling as water does, so far away.

Maka sighed once more, her neck cracking as she craned to look at her partner beside her. To her surprise, he was watching her too, his red eyes still unreadable. “What?”

“You knew.”

Her blood turned to ice.

His voice wasn’t accusing, not really. Rather, it was as if he was merely stating facts. Cold. Not what she was used to in the slightest -- there was usually warmth of some degree. Like when he’d shown up at her door just hours before, already dressed, a hand half extended in a cross between a joking and dead-serious manner.

“What would happen today,” he continued. And then she saw it: _betrayal._ It was vivid in his vision, in the way his body language angled slightly intimidatingly towards her. “You didn’t want to come.”

Her palms weren’t numb, they were _cold._ “Don’t be stupid, Soul.” Her own voice didn’t sound like it belonged to her, as if she’d left her body, listening in on foreign ears. “That wasn’t the reason. And I _didn’t_ know.”

“Then how did you know about the stairs?” He murmured.

 _Because it was common sense not to wait at the elevators?_ Maka breathed. Of all people, of everything - “Really? This is what this is about? The fact I just saved our _lives_?” Anger kept her words flowing, an anger that was uncontrollable -- because she, too, felt just as betrayed. “And by the way, if anyone had known about this, it would’ve been _you._ ”

Soul froze.

He tore his eyes away, his mouth opening once, before closing again. If she were supposed to feel satisfied, she _didn’t._ “So is there anything else you’re hiding from me?” Maka spat.

Her question was only met with silence.

“You’re shitting me.”

Suddenly he was staring at her again. Gone away was his betrayal, replaced with something that was similar to _sheepishness._ “It’s not what you think, I promise. I felt bad about it. Because you kept saying you thought it was dangerous and unnatural. But if we’re going back through to the Olympus Heights, I think it’s better if you know.”

And then he flexed his hand, once, twice, before it glowed green.

Maka’s blood curdled - and as he reached for her, with his normal hand, not one cloaked with that strange and terrible luminescence that marked the use of ADAM, she shot back, uncaring as pain seared up her thigh and her dress ripped loudly. “You have a _Plasmid_? Are you fucking _serious_?” Her voice shot up an octave, shrill and accusatory.  She didn’t even know what she was saying; only two thoughts flashed through her head, as if on repeat: _he betrayed me. He betrayed me._ “You _know_ what I tell you about them. I don’t care that it gives you - _stupid -_ superpowers. You _know_ how they’re dangerous and they - they fucking _splice your DNA._ How -- how could you--”

“I got it before I met you,” Soul said quietly. “Look, let me just heal you, okay? You’re bleeding.”

As if in response, her shoulders throbbed, her foot flared, and that area by her thigh felt hot and sticky. And yet just looking at the green that radiated from his hand, she shrunk as far back as she could. “I _know_ I’m bleeding. Christ, Soul! I don’t want your Plasmid _near_ me!” Instinct took over, much more powerful than before. Whereas in the _Kashmir_ , it was fight, this time, it was flight -- and she was backed into a corner. So Maka curled, hugging her bleeding leg to her chest. “I-I’d rather amputate,” she spat.  

Something like genuine hurt crossed Soul’s expression, if she’d allow herself the capacity to see it. “Don’t say that.”

She could feel the blood pouring from her wound, the way her body was almost _attracted_ to the glowing hand. The promise of relief. And yet her brain fueled her words, her _research_ and her _job_ the only remaining factors to her conviction. “I know better than _anyone_ what a Plasmid can do if you use it too much. And I’ll be the first person to say that it is _not_ the ‘cool’ thing to do. It will kill you.”

“These fucking riots will kill us first. _Please_ , Maka.”

His red eyes bore into hers. She could still hear the noise, not so far away from them. Her leg had given in, and she could feel her conscience dangerous to doing so too. “... Fine,” she managed, before her world slipped into black.  

-

Maka blinked her eyes open. She was still in the same position as she was before she blacked out, with two major differences. Her shoulder didn’t throb. Her leg no longer felt warm. Her feet didn’t hurt.

She could hear him breathing. Light, feathering breaths, calmer than before.

“How long was I out?”

“Twenty minutes,” was his quiet reply.

Maka slumped her head against the wall. At least she didn’t _watch_ it happen. Some people thought the power of a healing Plasmid was a miracle, how it could repair skin as if it was simply synthetic material. It never fascinated Maka. It made her sick.

“ _Only_ in dire situations,” she muttered.

“Are you granting me permission, Miss Albarn?” Soul said lightly, but his steadily growing grin faltered as soon as she shot him a look. And with a heave, she pulled herself to her feet, him following. She definitely felt different, rested, in no ways twenty minutes should’ve been. Maybe her research was good for something - _one thing_ , she thought, and for a second, she remembered all the injuries, no, severed limbs, that littered the floor of the restaurant.

She shook herself together.

“Ready?”

“As I’ll ever be,” Soul muttered.

And they were off, snaking through the alleyways, not quite talking. Soul didn’t bother questioning her again on her knowledge of the back alleys, similarly to how she said nothing as she noticed a light blue pulse granting her sight. There was a time for questions, perhaps accusations. Not now. Not after what had just transpired.

She did ask one question, however.

“Why ATLAS?”

“Why would _our esteemed mayor_ Ryan do it?” Soul countered steadily. “It makes no sense. New Years was his baby, well one of them.” And then, quieter. “But these bombings, they weren't -- it wasn’t ever something that was brought to the ATLAS Rallies.” He grabbed a hold of her wrist then, wrenching her back, so that all she could see was the sincerity of his red eyes. “I didn’t lie to you, Maka.”

_That the so-called Rallies were only about giving comfort and hope to the lower class?_

Before she had a chance to ask her question, a guttural groan caught her attention. She knew the sound, knew the _gurgle_ that followed afterward. _It_ stumbled towards them, limbs in an odd cross between dangling and stiff, one leg moving like a stilt, the other jerking forward after it. A splicer.  It groaned once, then twice - and Maka only had three seconds to register its swollen face, green skin, temples protruding from the exertion that caused it in the first place, where eyes used to be swallowed by a growth of pulsating and veiny skin - before it charged, racing towards them. Maka reached at her hip, only to grasp at nothingness, the stickiness of her black dress, clinging to her leg, and she turned, too slow to run -

\- and then something white and something hot erupted from the peripherals of her senses. And where Maka knew there should’ve been sound, was instead the very audible sizzle as flesh burnt to a crisp. The acrid smell of something burning flooded her nostrils, the sick sounds of crunching and frying pounding her ears.

Soul took a step forward, hand still outstretched - cloaked as if he were wearing a glove of white. For a split second, his fingers seemed to crackle, a small spark dancing from his fingertips, before another bolt surged from him - and this time there truly _was_ a scream, deranged and unhumanly.

Then, silence.

He was frozen in place, staring beyond her.

Maka slowly drew in a breath, and then turned.

The splicer, what was left of it anyways, sat in a fried lump on the concrete floor. A mess of brittle limbs and a mouth still open in mid protest, what was once hair was a crown of ash. The body parts were indistinguishable; simply a mass of flesh, not even an ounce of blood left to decorate the crisp pile that was once, not so long ago, a human.

Bile rose to her throat. Her eyes stung with tears, a combination of sympathy, revulsion, and, in a small but significant dose, fear. Above all, Maka didn’t have the heart to point out that _this_ was why she was so scared of her own research.

She could sense him beside her, sense the unnatural silence, the shock sinking into his veins. The Plasmid’s aura had retracted, returning his hand to the ones she remembered - slender, trimmed, a pianist’s hands, not a fighter’s. Not a _Plasmid user._ One day his fingers would elongate, his nails shooting from the beds, and his limbs would stiffen. His skin will puff up, turn green, sliding off his bones like linen sheets, and he would no longer play the piano. He wouldn’t be _Soul._

As if in response, he collapsed.

And upon realizing what he was doing, Maka turned away.

Retching, the smell of bile -- Maka took a deep, shuddering breath, trying not to listen to him cough and spit. His quiet swearing, sipping inhales and sniffles were the only sounds in the dilapidated alleyway. She waited until she could feel him beside her again, a presence she’d somehow grown accustomed to. “Are you okay?”

His only response was coarse. Broken.

“No.”

Maka took his hand, the only comforting gesture she knew, and stroked her thumb over the expanse of his palm. He was shaking, _he was shaking_ , and in the distance, she could still hear the sound of jazz from the megaphones.  The hollow screaming. The smell of cinders, gunpowder. The presence of ADAM, everywhere -- being used, in the air, vivid even from the charred corpse a few feet away. 

And the light from the _Kashmir_ blinked once, twice, before plunging into black.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**_346 days before the riots._ **

 

“ _You’re new.”_

 

_The white haired man looks up, startled. “Excuse me?”_

 

_Maka nods to the piano at the back of the club, the one the man had been stationed at not ten minutes before. Curiosity has made her approach him, the slouch of his spine and the intensity with which he stares into the amber liquid of his glass a mystery. “You’re new. I’ve never heard you play before.”_

 

_“Ah. I lived in the other end of the city until just recently.”_

 

_Fingers trace the polished wood of the bar. “You’re quite good.”_

 

_His lips twitch and he studies her. Finally he shuffles over, motioning to the stool next to him. “Would you care to join me?”_

 

_Maka smiles. “How long have you played for?” she asks, slipping in beside him. A nod at the bartender and her regular drink is set down on a napkin before her._

 

_“Since forever. I can’t remember not playing.” He rubs his arm. “...Did you really like it?”_

 

_“Of course! It was beautiful.”_

 

_His smile is shy, but pleased. “Thanks. Uh, my name is Soul by the way.”_

 

_Maka grins and sticks out her hand. Soul eyes it with some mixture of confused amusement before gripping it back gently. “I’m Maka.”_

 

_They talk for hours, their drinks forgotten amidst the warmth of pleasant company. When finally they say their goodbyes, after the bartender has pointedly checked his watch for the fifth time in so many minutes, Maka meanders from the bustle and lights of the club to her high end apartment._

 

_She is in the elevator about to press the the button for the fourth floor when her strange white haired companion steps inside and nearly gives her a heart attack._

 

_Soul quickly holds up his hands. “Don’t hit me!”_

 

_Maka doesn’t lower her fist. “Are you following me?”_

 

_“No! I live here!”_

 

_After some much needed assurance that, no, she wasn’t being stalked, Maka finds out that Soul is her new neighbour - the one who listens to jazz music till one in the morning and had carried the majority of his belongings into the high end apartment in only two trips._

 

_Maka berates him until he promises to turn off the music by 10:00 pm and to meet her the next day for lunch._

 

\----

 

“Soul?”

 

He blinked up at her, red eyes darker without the usual luminescence behind them. In the absence of gold, the muted teal only cast a shadow across his tired face. Baggy eyes, streaked with a few renegade tears that had escaped his attention; white hair matted with dirt and sweat; lips rubbed raw. Soul stared, almost unseeingly. “Where to?” His voice was hoarse, so different from the confidence it normally wore. In that moment, Maka didn’t want to fathom just how _long_ that facade had been - how weak for it to have crumbled this way.

 

“This way,” she murmured. With only the dim, pathetic glow of a ‘streetlight’ as their guidance, Maka used her other hand to pat his palm as she began to pull them into the shadows. It was truly ominous; whereas the bright luminescence once helped her forget, without it, Maka could only think about how they were truly underwater. The bottom of the ocean, with expanses and expanses of _nothing_ awaiting beyond the glass walls that kept the world out -- and them _in_. It was cold. Surrounded by water, the grub of the back alleyways, dim shades of turquoise and flickering white their only solace, Maka was _cold._

 

The silence between them was almost uncomfortable. It’d never been that way before. _Conversation._ Not that Soul was necessarily _good_ at it, but she wasn’t a shining example. The urge to speak stayed with her, as the only noise to accompany their fleeing was the sound of their own echoing footsteps, so foreign against the backdrop of the echoing sounds of hollow jazz. By now, the streets, too, were silent.

.

 

The next step Maka took was met by resistance. As she turned to question it, she was instead met with an eyeful of flickering flame. Her eyes trailed from the lick of fire that seemed to dance from curved fingers, to the solemn face just barely illuminated behind it.

 

“It’s cold,” Soul said simply. He swallowed. “And I’m better now. They were already gone.”

 

It sounded more like he was trying to convince himself.

 

“Why don’t we take a break?” Maka murmured. Soul shrugged, but didn’t complain as she sat, dragging him with her. It was quiet at first, the same echoing silence that pounded loudly in her ears. And now that they sat, the adrenaline had faded away, leaving nothing but numbness. Every breath was slow, calculated.

 

“Your dress,” Soul said suddenly. Maka’s hand, already up against the frilly crinoline, suddenly felt red hot. She glanced down to the big tear along the side. Maka grimaced; it had been truly one of her favourites. She grabbed a fistful of material, yanking it along the tear to the sound of more ripping fabric. Soul gaped.

 

“What?”

 

Something like a laugh, a gasp, and a cough escaped him. “Your dress,” he said again.

 

“I left the mask back at _Kashmir_ anyways,” she amended. At least that earned a chuckle - the scrunched material in her fists still felt hot. It didn’t matter, she told herself, survival. Survival.

 

The least she could do was wait for his grin to fall naturally from his face.

 

“We haven’t run into another splicer yet,” she said. Soul’s head bobbed once. “I think we should arm ourselves.”

 

“I’m fine,” Soul said reflexively. And then he coughed into the back of his hand. “I mean, I think I’m okay.” But she could see him, he was only just a few feet away after all. She could see the rigidity in his fisted hands, the taut skin that threatened to crease across his forehead.

 

“I have a-”

 

“Maka.” His voice had changed - it had steadied. For the first time in a long time he sounded serious. His hand snaked around her wrist, brushing along the fistfuls of fabric and wrecked crinoline scrunched in her palms. Her head jerked reflexively, a small breath sipped between her parted lips. “I’m fine.”

 

She breathed.

 

When he was that close, it really was difficult to escape that gaze of crimson.

 

.

 

The second time they put down a splicer, at least Soul didn’t throw up.

 

But his hand was still stiff afterward, his face all too lax. It was better than the agony, the shock after he’d first killed someone. _Better_ , but the unnatural stillness was too much for Maka. Too much like the body they’d left on the floor. She clamped a hand around his wrist. Soul seemed to snap awake, and they’d returned to their brisk pace.

 

The third time, she’d watched the splicer fall to the ground. Only because Soul couldn’t; he’d turned away, unable to watch. Maka was careful not to inhale - the last thing she wanted to taste was the charred air, the odd medicinal sweetness that was leaked ADAM. She hated that smell. In theory, it should’ve calmed her. After all,  the odd substance that fueled and granted the Plasmid power was abundant in her normal work environment. But her work environment also had Suchong. And the last thing she wanted to think about during this time was her asshole, money-wrangling, flip-flopping employer.

 

After the fourth, it only took ten minutes before he spoke. “We’re walking home,” Soul murmured.

 

“Where else would we go?”

 

Maka didn’t mean it as a rhetorical question, truly - but the silence that followed was answer all the same. It was a harsh reality that they both faced, the knowledge that when they both had come to Rapture, they both knew it was a one way trip. But it was all worth it, so _worth it_ , even with the murmurs of civil war. Now, things were different. There shouldn’t have been a way out of the city -- and there wasn’t, as far as she knew. Sometimes she wondered -- _how did Suchong get fresh supplies all the time? --_  but it didn’t make sense. Rapture was a one way trip. Everyone here knew that.

 

In the end, there was only one option, really.

 

Maka didn’t want to think about it. Not when her heels had all but snapped off, her eyes rubbed raw from weariness and her legs aching. At least they weren’t injured. Soul’s Plasmid had attested to that. Healing was one thing, she knew - that fascination at watching your own limbs patch together before your very eyes. Killing, though, that was different. Terrible. The thought lingered as she veered a right, Soul’s footsteps just a few feet away.

 

They stumbled back onto the mainstreet, surprisingly quiet. But not empty - two splicers, or the remains anyway, laid off to the side, thick and viscous blood oozing from the mess of limbs that were left of them. A vague haze of green, residue of Plasmid and ADAM abuse, seemed to blanket the street. She didn’t want to say it, but there was something in the irony of splicers being attacked by Plasmid users, only for the Plasmid user to become a splicer themselves. A vicious cycle she was all too familiar with, and one she chose not to associate with the man who was barely a step behind her.

 

“It looks like there might’ve been a standoff,” Maka supplied, stepping aside.

 

“Bullets,” Soul pointed out, nodding his chin towards an inactive sign board. It once displayed the name of their apartment, one of many electronic billboards that dotted Rapture. Now, it was merely black, their turned heads and tiny, tiny bodies reflected against splintered glass.

 

“And _human_ victims.” She didn’t need to look to know Soul avoided staring at the decidedly human attacks. The blood was less like the sludgy consistency that belonged to the splicers and more like that of humans. It was hard to judge who the contenders were, whether it was human against splicers, humans against humans, or all out chaos. All she knew was that their apartment laid a few blocks ahead, where the carnage already seemed lighter.

 

It was fine.

 

The cleaners would come in the morning. The news would be on. Maka would have her coffee, see what she witnessed reflected in the miniature screen of her tele. And then she’d whisk out the door, into the pristine streets of Rapture. The streetlights would be back on, casting the dark blues back into it’s usual gold. Downtown core would be its usual dizzying array of lights, and the _Kashmir_ would stand tall, lit in its usual teal and red signs.

 

She’d wake up, and it would all be fine.

 

.

 

 _“And the riots are still ongoing, the_ Kashmir _-”_

 

“Turn it off,” Soul said quietly.

 

_“-still broken, the death count is higher than we could’ve expected -”_

 

“Turn it _off_.”

 

“I can’t. It’s coming from the management,” Maka said patiently. And then, as if in response, a loud ding signified the arrival of their elevator. She punched their floor button without hesitation. As they began ascending, she felt as if her limbs were heavy, that she were sagging. She could finally think about everything that happened, sift through the turmoil of conflicting feelings. The more she thought about it, the more overwhelming it felt.

 

Even as she stepped into the shower, after dismissing Soul for what she promised would be fifteen minutes, as she twisted the left faucet and stood under the stream of steaming water. Maka tilted her head back and washed the grime from her face, coarse soaps burning at the shallow cuts and scrapes that she hadn’t initially noticed.

 

This was real.

 

_This was real._

 

The water stopped draining murky, and instead tainted with red. Maka rubbed her body until it was raw - as if shedding a layer of her skin would rid her of the burdens from their night. And yet, as she wrapped her wet tresses in a towel and slipped into a bathrobe, her radio continued to crackle and fizz, as if it were trying to find signal.

 

In and out, the sharpness came and gone. The only thing audible were snatches of words -- _chaos, stay in-- can’t find -- been missing since the start -- Ryan’s been looking --thousand and fift --gedy._

 

Maka shut off her radio with a snap.

 

And then, with a surprisingly steady hand, she lifted the plywood planks from the ground. The metal knob underneath was cold to her touch -- never once had it actually been turned, until today. In hindsight, she was surprised she still remembered the combination. The knob whirred back into place, clicking open with a snap.

 

With an equally steady grip, Maka pulled the pistol free from the safe.

 

The door flung open.

 

“You have one too?”

 

Maka whipped her gaze upwards, locking onto his red eyes. They weren’t looking at her, rather they were trained on the cool steel in her grasp. He, too, at least looked a little less haphazard -- gone away was his business suit, replaced instead by a set of pressed trousers and a white button-up shirt. In his hand was a similar pistol, somehow less foreign in his grasp than she would’ve expected. Maka suddenly felt self conscious, clad in nothing but her white bathrobe. Maybe, in a different circumstance,and without the guns, this would’ve been a very different kind of encounter. Funny - awkward, maybe charming.

 

She ignored the discomfort that stabbed her in the sides. “For safety purposes.”

 

Soul scoffed. “A researcher with a firearm?”

 

“Says the club pianist.”

 

Soul’s arms fell helplessly to his sides.

 

It took several moments before Maka finally willed herself to move. Soul didn’t question when she brought the gun with her, into her room, as she shed off her bathrobe and instead chose a garment that was in between a night robe and one of her usual crinolined-skirts. When she finally reemerged, gun in hand, he was by her window, staring back into the still-too-dim lights of the downtown core of Rapture. The usual vibrant hues of gold, amber, and teal were gone, muted, as if someone had painted over the picturesque scenery with broad strokes of grey watercolour. He was motionless, solemn.

 

“I didn’t know.”

 

Maka sighed. “I suspected. I work for Suchong afterall.”

 

“He’s such a _bastard,”_ Soul said spitefully. If it were another circumstance, Maka might’ve laughed. This was their typical conversation over a glass of brandy, usually the very line _she’d_ say. Hearing it from Soul, with as much aggression as he could muster, was supposed to be funny -- but all she could do was sit. He wasn’t wrong. Suchong _was_ a dick. And after what felt like an eternity, Soul finally sat down with her.

 

The silence between them stretched -- yet in the beats between, they could still hear the fading sounds of what must’ve been gunfire. Muted screams beyond the double-paned windows, steady plumes of smoke unfurling into the artificial sky.

 

“Yeah, well, the real bastard here is ATLAS,” Maka murmured. “All Ryan wanted was progress.”

 

“You don’t care about the little people?” Soul murmured. _The little people._ Whom ATLAS always said he was about -- who he was fighting for. Where he’d host his _Rallies_ , where Soul would disappear to so many nights.

 

Suddenly annoyed, Maka got up. “Did _the little people_ set the bombs? Because in that case, no. I don’t care about _the little people_.” With that, she left him on the couch, dragging a blanket from cabinet. Wordlessly, she draped it back over her vacant seat. Her fingers skimmed briefly along the corner of his shoulder, and he twitched in response -- for a brief moment, she wondered if he, too, had rubbed himself raw in his own shower.

 

And just as wordlessly, she fell onto her own bed, and lost herself in a dreamless sleep.

 


	3. Chapter 3

**_119 days before the riots._ **

 

_“...she came over again, you know, but wouldn’t talk about where she worked... Kind of like someone else I know.”_

 

_“Sorry, what?” Maka looks up, frowning. They are sitting in her apartment, Soul strumming a guitar as Maka pours over files from work. Suchong had given her several research papers to go over and document, each more gruesome than the last._

 

_Soul sighs, all dramatic and long suffering. “Have you heard anything I’ve said?”_

 

_“Not really, no.”_

 

_He slumps in her couch, head resting on his chin as he regards her. “You must really love your boss to work this hard.”_

 

_“No, Suchong’s a dick. He works for the highest bidder, regardless of who it is.”_

 

_“You mean Yi-Suchong? The Korean guy who had all those ‘breakthroughs’?” When Maka nods, Soul frowns. “Why do you work for him?”_

 

_Maka sighs and lowers the paper in her hand. “The technology we’re working with is revolutionary -- those are the ‘breakthroughs’. Even if the man is questionable, it’s something I want to be apart of.” Maka shakes her head. “Anyways, he’s shady but he’s the reason why I’m here, and not stuck up on the surface.”_

 

_Soul hums at her. “So what are you working on?”_

 

_Maka runs a hand through her hair, sifting through pages. “Uh, just some research notes on ADAM.”_

 

_“Say...I’ve always wondered…”_

 

_“What?” Maka asks, distracted._

 

_“What is ADAM?”_

 

_“Have you heard of stem cells?”_

 

_“Nope.”_

 

_Maka laughs. “Well, it’s basically a cell that become anything. It’s amazing, really. In its raw form, it’s this green substance we found from sea slugs down here -- can you imagine what would’ve it been like if we hadn’t found them? The possibilities for this technology are endless - it’s brought us to the cusp of a new world - a new life, the evolution of humans.” The buzz of her research has her excited, until her smile slips into a frown. “That’s what the research used to be -- until Plasmids were made, to direct the ADAM into useable energy, to give humans something as unnatural as superpowers -- I used to think this is where we were headed, evolution-wise...”_

 

_“And now?” Soul asks quietly._

 

_Maka turns to face him, her expression solemn. She swallows. “Now...I’m not so sure anymore. Sometimes I wonder… is what we’re doing right?”_

 

_Soul snorts. “You’re wondering about this now? What happened to your revolutionary technology?”_

 

_Maka pauses, her mind filling with the pictures of her lab. The open bodies, the green leaks they produce, the first tests as she implanted the slug into the gaping wound…_

 

_She slams down her pen. “Oh, shush, you. Come on, you said you wanted to go get lunch?”_

 

\--------

 

The stuttering radio was normal now.

 

Instead, Maka listened for reports. As she suspected, there wasn’t much. The airwaves were gone, and any newscasts were growing sparser by the day. Eventually, she let her hunger win -- while the radio still sputtered, she turned on her stove. Closer to the radio, the blanketed mass on the couch stirred.

 

“Maka, turn it off - I wanna hear this.”

 

Maka sighed and twisted the knob, the recently alight flames going back out.

 

 _“-- Five discovered. Splicers left abound. There seems -- gathering of -- danger, if you’re in -- please go inside -- Bathysphere network still down -- delayed launch -- Ryan won’t permit  -- still looking for hi  -- fifty-three more identified from the_ Kash _\--”_

 

 _“Damnit,_ ” Soul muttered, as he finally tossed the blanket off his body and jabbed at the radio. Maka didn’t bother informing him that it did nothing, that it wouldn’t make a difference. Instead, the metal box wobbled precariously, before tipping back to its normal position. Maka rolled her eyes, cranked the burner back on, and opened her fridge. Reaching in the back, she grabbed a jug of cold water, pouring herself a glass. She took one, steady sip.

 

Soul threw himself dramatically back on the couch. “I _still_ blame Suchong, you know.”

 

Maka let the liquid sit on her tongue, before finally swallowing.

 

“I need to get my research.”

 

Maka didn’t know why she said it, didn’t know what capacity of her mind had thought it before she’d voiced it. Her hand was still icily calm, barely trembling. The water inside the flute was perfectly still.

 

“I need to get my research,” she repeated slowly. “I was the one who discovered ADAM, found out how it could be harvested. I can stop this. I can stop the splicers. Then things will get back to normal.”

 

Soul scrambled upright, the blanket flying askew off his body and onto the floor. “Maka?”

 

“I have to get it, Soul.” She raised the flute to her lips, but the cold water did nothing to to her body. She was hot, _burning_ , and nothing other than cold determination suddenly pumped through her veins. She knew what she had to do. It was so simple. The gun was right there. She could arm herself. She could go in. She could _do it._

 

Soul’s hand found hers and she froze, the glass raised in a mid-sip. “Maka?”

 

“ _What?”_

 

His red eyes bore into hers. “You’re freaking me out.”

 

The long, slow breath she took was also as useless as the water. It made _sense_. It would be easy. She’d have to slip in, slip out. She knew the facility like the back of her hand. And if someone got in her way --

 

\-- at least their corpse wouldn’t smell like burning flesh.

 

Her hand trembled, wavered even. “I- I have to get my research,” she repeated. And then his grip was iron, restricting.

 

“Maka, you’re not a murderer.”

 

How was it, that this neighbor, who up until a week ago, was nothing more than just a neighbor, could see right through her? And then why, _why_ , couldn’t he see that she _had to do this?_

 

“He’s a _bastard,_ Soul -- he could’ve stopped this, this is all his fault --”

 

“-- The one who did this was ATLAS,” Soul said gently.

 

“-- and I will fucking _sink_ the bullets between Suchong’s fucking _eyes!_ ” The last word came out as a hiccup, as hot tears finally broke free and splashed down her cheeks. It was _his_ fault, if he knew, they could’ve stopped this, there could’ve been a warning. _Something_.

 

A week’s worth of unfeeling suddenly cracked, emotion she’d perfected from ever breaking through _flooding_ through her. It was _fine._ She’d defiled corpses before -- it was her _job._ She’d seen hunks of flesh and charred remains and slugs inside _little girls,_ for God’s sake -- and yet her conviction had shattered, and as much as she wrestled it back, she was _scared_ , so _scared,_ and in a small part, scared of the man before her. The product of her research, who had a Plasmid himself, who could commit all these crimes and all it took for her was to pull a trigger.

 

His arms wrapped around her, steady and warm, and she was shaking, she hadn’t realized when but she was _shaking_ , and he stroked her hair, tresses flowing freely between his once slim, pianist fingers.

 

“We’re gonna be okay.”

 

She wanted to believe him, she really did. “We’ve been here for a _week_ , Soul.”

 

“Things will go back to normal.”

 

“I need my research,” she mumbled into his shirt, a fist balling helplessly into the fabric.

 

“We just need to wait it out.” The conviction in his voice was comforting, but she could also hear hesitation, a subtle doubt. “They’ll turn everything back on. They’ll clean the streets. We just need to survive.”

 

She squeezed her eyes shut, willing the last few tears to leave her. They dropped into his shirt, moisture slowly spreading from the epicenter, staining his white shirt to grey. “You’re gonna go?”

 

“To get more supplies. I have to,” Soul said quietly. “And you’re going to stay here. And _leave_ the gun on the table. Promise?”

 

A thin, fragile silence stretched between them.

 

It was only until his hands gripped her shoulders, forcing her gaze into his -- plunging into pools of red, the only thing that was still really _alive_ amongst the dulled windows, the fading city they refused to acknowledge lying just beyond it.

 

“I promise,” she whispered.

 

He pressed a small kiss on the crown of her forehead -- not exactly new, though the low flutter in the base of her stomach was. There was tension crackling between them, the uncertainty palpable between them. But then he was out the door, and she was on the couch.  Her legs crossed, and she did nothing but fix her gaze on the coffee table, whereupon her pistol laid untouched since their third day in isolation.

 

The water wasn’t cold anymore, but she still raised the glass to her lips.

 

As much as Soul assured her she wasn’t a murderer, Maka decided she’d never tell him just how close _he_ was to the title.

 

.

She’d fallen asleep by the time he’d returned. The sight of the lump on her couch - usually accompanied by one or two limbs sticking from the blanket as he dozed - soothed the knot that had been forming in his absence. On the table were his findings -- money, mainly, but also food. Ammunition. THough Rapture wasn’t a place that normally had guns, the whispers of revolution came with paranoid, armed citizens. Maka could feel the emotion at her throat, and yet she pushed it away - consciously, this time, as opposed to it being an unconscious reflex - and drew a couple cans from within her cupboard.

 

Once she had some chili going at the stove, a groan came from under the blanket.

 

“Morning,” Maka said, and she was determined not to bring up the events from yesterday in the ensuing conversation.

 

“ _Fuck_ ,” was the response.

 

It would’ve been funny, she supposed, but when he shed the blanket, this time, it came with red.

 

Maka nearly dropped the spoon.

 

Instead, she stuck it back into the pot before rushing to his side. It was so _red_. “Soul - you’re - what happened?”

 

“Splicer, what do you _think_?” was the gruff response, and then a hiss as Maka expertly manipulated his leg. She wasn’t a medical practitioner, but at least she had more experience than the average citizen.

 

“Your Plasmid,” she muttered.

 

His eyes bore upon her. “I thought you hated me using it.”

 

Maka grit her teeth. “Stop avoiding the subject.”

 

Suddenly, Soul’s shoulders sagged, the teasing bravado drained from his body. “I think I ran out.”

 

Maka’s blood ran cold. “Of ADAM?”

 

Soul nodded, his matted white hair bobbing stiffly with the motion. Of all things that Maka stored in her apartment, she _never_ kept ADAM around. Up until very recently, the thought of it was too much -- the artificiality of its production. The effect it had on humans. To her, it was a dangerous substance to be researched, not to be kept in households. His touch nearly had her jumping from her skin, those changed fingers snaking around her wrist.

 

“I have some in my apartment,” Soul said. “Drawers above the sink. There should still be two.”

 

It wasn’t a question. She snatched his keys from the table, where they still were since the first night they returned home -- “Okay. _Still?”_

 

Soul narrowed his eyes. “We can discuss it when you get back.”

 

\-- Or so she thought.

 

Gritting her teeth once more, Maka closed the door behind her.

 

.

 

Soul hissed as Maka slowly administered the ADAM, viscous green liquid oozing its way into his veins. She hated it, she _hated_ it, that the substance that she knew ended lives was a household object -- and _she_ was the weird one for not having a supply of the Plasmid-refueling liquid in her home. He seemed to groan under her, squirming as she lifted the syringe from his skin. Maka pressed a piece of gauze against the administered area, giving more pressure as Soul sat up. “You okay?”

 

“I’m fine,” Soul murmured. And then his hand began to glow green, waving over his right leg and lower torso. Maka could see the repairs, his skin knitting together and his blood replenishing effortlessly, but she could tell it was happening. Instead of loitering, Maka got up and filled a small basin with water, dunking a hand towel in. She brought the basin back to the couch, wringing out the towel in the process. When Soul moved to take it from her, she gave him a glare in response.

 

Instead of relenting, he raised his eyebrows. “What?” Maka said, the feeling of knowing exactly _what_ he wanted already in the back of her mind.

 

“Give me the towel.”

 

She slapped his hand away. “I can do it. You’re hurt.”

 

“I’m fine now,” Soul insisted. As if it would prove his point, he dragged a finger through the recently exposed area, drawing a flesh-coloured streak amongst the red, his finger stained with blood. “See?”

 

“No. And take off the rest of your shirt.” Soul made to grab the towel once more, until Maka snatched the entire basin away from him in a smooth motion. Soul frowned -- but something in his expression shifted, and instead gingerly took off the shredded remains of his garments.

 

The side-stitched scar that marked its way down his torso wasn’t new (though, admittedly, the first time she’d seen him shirtless _had_ scared her). Instead, she focused on the large splotch of red against his skin. It seemed like a tattoo - carved in near perfect lines around his abdomen, vivid in her eyes. Part of Maka wanted to hold him down. Soul remained perfectly still, almost stubbornly so, and if she didn’t know better, she would’ve thought he was clenching.

 

Pushing the distracted thoughts from her mind, Maka dragged the luke-warm cloth over the afflicted area, revealing new skin underneath. It was different from the rest of his body in an almost jarring fashion. Too discoloured, too pale, too…

 

_Green._

 

“Soul?”

 

He looked pointedly away, but from his profile Maka could see the muscles in his jaw clench as he ground his teeth together.  “Soul,” she repeated.

 

Maka plunged the towel back into the basin, the ribbons of red melting into the clear waters otherwise. “How many times.” When he continued to ignore her, she asked again more firmly. “How _many_ times have you refilled on ADAM before today, Soul?”

 

“...Twice,” was the stubborn response, hissed through unwilling lips.

 

 _Two._ In the past week. Perhaps the refill on ADAM made sense after a week of usage,  considering how much pressure he’d been putting on it. But _two -_ for a total of _three_ \- in the past week?

 

The vivid memories of Maka’s subsequent tests -- ADAM addiction, overuse and drain on ADAM on the body -- was all too much for her. It all resulted in one thing: _Splicers._

 

She shoved the basin to the side, ignoring it as it clattered noisily, water spilling onto the floor.

 

“Maka-”

 

“We’re going, Soul. We have to leave.”

 

The expression in his eyes changed, shattered before her. He bit the inside of his cheek, hard lines forming along his brow. He was going to fight back, he was going to _fucking_ fight back. Maka knew it. Just the way his expression twisted, where the steady optimism blackened to stubbornness, an expression change she, too, probably had gone through recently.

 

“We can’t,” Soul said quietly.

 

A breath huffed its way through her mouth. “What do you mean?”

 

“We can’t. We should stay here.”

 

Anger, irritation, and something like regret -- because she’d love to, she really would -- boiled in her stomach. “Soul, we can’t, we’ll die.”

 

“We just need to wait,” he fought back, though Maka knew he was trying to convince himself as much as her. “They’ll get it back under control. Downtown will turn back on. It’ll be fin-”

 

“-If that were the case, then we wouldn’t have been waiting here for seven days, listening to how many people they found _dead_!” Maka exclaimed. “And what of the splicers -- there are _so_ many Soul, everyone’s in a panic --”

 

“-- I can protect us --”

 

_“-- You can’t protect us when you become one, Soul!”_

 

The water from the basin had finally crept its way to her, wetting her knees and calves. All she could hear was the sound of their breathing, heavy, heated. And then, the rustling of fabric as he shifted. “...Where would we go?” he asked, his voice quiet, broken.

 

“Out.”

 

“Of Rapture?” Maka nodded. Soul sighed. “We can’t.”

 

He was right. There wasn’t _supposed_ to be a way out. Rapture was an escape from the world. It was why she was here -- to do what she loved, to research. It took time, but she finally understood why _he_ was here, why he was so insistent about staying -- because being in Rapture meant he was away from his family, was someone else. Was Soul the club pianist, still a fantastic musician of his own regard, but not Soul Evans, let down prodigy from the esteemed Evans family. It was a oneway trip, and they had always known that. Everyone knew that.

 

 _ATLAS_ knew that; which was probably why they began the riots in the first place.

 

Everyone who stayed inside would die.

 

And then it clicked, it all dawned on her: there was _never_ going to be the time when the lights would turn back on. The streets wouldn’t be cleaned. There was nothing left for them here. And if they stayed, they’d turn up dead, or worse.

 

He was a timebomb - and she was the collateral waiting to happen.

 

“I need to get my research,” Maka whispered.

 

“That again?” Soul murmured. “I said it before, you can’t --”

 

“-- I’m not going to kill Suchong, as much as I’d _like_ to. Backstabbing asshole. But he knows something.” _He has to._

 

The way Soul observed her said the opposite. Doubt swam in his red eyes, echoed in the way he folded his arms over the splicer-skin across his stomach. Maka’s heart suddenly started fluttering as the logic began to unfold itself in front of her eyes. “Everyone in here will die. ATLAS is a person -- you’ve been to the rallies, so I know -- which means, there’s probably a way out. Otherwise, what was the point of inciting a civil war, if everyone’s going to die?”

 

Soul stared. “We can’t just go knocking on their door.”

  
And for the first time, of all things, a fleeting flash of hope scored her veins. “No, but Suchong will probably know. After all, he _is_ a bastard.”


	4. Chapter 4

**9 days before the riots.**

 

_The walls between their apartments are quite thin, despite the building being one of the more pricy locations to live. This means Maka knows precisely when Soul gets home each night - whether she wants to or not._

 

_So when every other night Soul doesn’t arrive home till 3:00 am, she knows. Normally she wouldn’t be too concerned, considering his job as a musician at a club - but the Kashmir closes at 1:00 am. And the nights he’s late are the nights of the ATLAS rallies._

 

_The thought brings a sick feeling to the pit of her belly, and one night Maka decides to confront him about. Just to make sure. Just to ease the rising panic in her mind._

 

_She’s leaning against his door when he arrives home._

 

_His brows raise as he sees her. “Hello,” he says, bemused._

 

_Maka’s face heats, and she feels a bit like a wife waiting to scold her husband. But then she remembers the rallies. “I need to talk to you,” she tells him, and the words come out thick._

 

_Wordlessly, Soul nods and moves passed her to unlock his apartment. When he does so, he motions her ahead of him, not quite looking at her as he holds the door open. Maka prays it isn’t a sign of guilt._

 

_“Please tell me you weren’t at the rally.”_

 

_“Coffee?” he asks._

 

_“It’s three-thirty in the morning!”_

 

_“Just me then.”_

 

_Maka jerks him around to face her. He looks tired, but finally his eyes rise to meet hers. “Tell me Soul. Please.”_

 

_Soul sighs, and runs a hand through his hair. “I was there. Every other week I’m there.”_

 

_Maka takes a step back. She’d suspected, but to hear it confirmed was like a punch to the gut. “They nearly killed Ryan’s son.”_

 

_Soul rolls his eyes. “Oh, please Maka, get real. He was at the wrong place at the wrong time.”_

 

_“How can you say that!?”_

 

_“How can you support Ryan!?” he shoots back. “Maka,  ever since Fontaine died, can’t you tell that this place is getting worse? Look at the poverty -- ATLAS doesn’t even have to say anything -- this anger and this rebellion would’ve grown regardless. At least ATLAS gives the semblance of something like hope.”_

 

_The emotions in his eyes are livid, so much so that Maka’s fists clench, and she struggles to keep her voice low. “I get why you liked Fontaine, I really do -- he was a man who worked hard and built himself up, and I respect that. But why are you projecting onto ATLAS now? Fontaine’s gone. ATLAS is nothing, just hearsay from people who still want to believe in the dead.”_

 

_“Well I’m one of those people, Maka.” He looked calm, but his voice sounded hoarse. “I need something to believe in.”_

 

_The silence settles._

 

_“...I should go,” Maka says, turning._

 

_“Maka, wait. This doesn’t change anything.”_

 

_A hand drags down her face. She feels tired all of a sudden. “I need to think, Soul. Goodnight.”_

 

_She leaves without looking back._

 

\----

 

Though it was only one night, in what felt like an eternity ago, being out like this -- back against the wall, breaths coming in gasps -- brought it all back.

 

At least this time, she had her own protection. Relying on Soul was fine, but she couldn’t afford to do that, _especially_ now. Not with Soul being ADAM depleted. _Use your gun,_ she had insisted, _it’s just as effective as a plasmid if you hit the right parts._

 

_And if they have the hardening ones?_

 

Maka hadn’t answered.

 

But she hadn’t thought about that possibility, not since leaving the dangerously quiet apartment to the equally silent streets. It was just like when they’d first returned to their apartment. She was sure it was the same body draped over the stairs as when they had fled up it, the same smears of blood that marked the path some straggler had attempted to take. So different from her everyday path she took to get to her facility, yet so _similar,_ and in the back of her mind, somehow appropriate, as if it had been missing this entire time. Perhaps in the week she’d had to observe the chaos, Maka had come to understand just how _pristine_ Rapture was. Now, with the dimmed lighting as Rapture began to run on power reserves, with a consistent streak of crimson red mixed in the usual palette of the underwater city, somehow it almost felt like this was the fate Rapture always had in store.

 

She shook herself from her thoughts when Soul began to go down the path to the old facility. She grabbed his wrist, halting him. “Not that way,” she muttered under her breath. “Here.”

 

“Artemis Suites?” Soul said confusedly. Admittedly, it was odd to venture from one of the wealthiest districts to one of the working class ones, but Maka knew better.

 

“We relocated. After Fontaine’s death, Suchong kept waiting until Ryan bought him out. But I don’t think Suchong was ever loyal,” Maka mused. The memory was all too vivid. After one of the biggest political rivals had been fighting for power, for him to pass so suddenly -- it was unrest all around, Fontaine supporters or otherwise. The technician-turned-political leader may not have been in everyone’s support, but she was her boss’s funder. Since his death, Suchong continued to work on his first investor’s projects in the secret facility.

 

Soul didn’t question it. Instead, he swerved down the alleyway, the sides still marked with gore from previous fights. It was strange to watch him now, walking stiffly down the streets, not once glancing at the carnage that surrounded him. Maybe he really did get used to it - trial by fire - or something _else_ was stopping him from feeling sympathetic. The looming threat of him becoming a splicer was too raw, too possible, for Maka to think about. She focused on their footsteps, instead.

 

It was then that the Artemis Suites loomed closer. She could tell it was in a state of disrepair -- from what, she didn’t know. The scene was difficult to piece together. There were a few bodies, sure, but they were too ravaged by _something_ , whether it be an explosion that caused the dilapidation that had gathered at such a severe amount in just a bit more than a week, or other splicers, scavengers, scrounging for something that the corpses could offer.

 

Maka pointedly decided to not lump herself nor Soul in the lattermost category.

 

“We shouldn’t hang around here,” Soul muttered. “I don’t think it’s a good idea.”

 

“What do you mean?” Maka murmured.

 

Something like a shudder tore through him. “I can feel Little Sisters.” Once again, a dull hit of guilt filled her senses. Those poor girls from whom ADAM was harvested from, another product of her research she never wanted to publicize. Though in hindsight, she hadn’t been the one to put forth the Little Sister program, she still felt indirectly responsible.

 

All of this was her fault. Her research, her responsibility.

 

_This was it._

 

“I’m not getting my research,” Maka decided.

 

If she were to leave Rapture anyways, if Rapture was going to die, maybe it was for the best for her work to stay here. And everything she’d done, her own hand in creating this disaster, could be prevented, if it were never seen again.

 

Soul said nothing, but she could almost hear his sigh of relief as they pressed on.

.

Though the first floor was in a violent state of disrepair, the rest of the suites seemed untouched enough. Certainly by the time they’d entered the Free Clinic, it was as she remembered. Pristine, all too white, and what seemed to be running on emergency power still active. Suchong was probably still here. Her fingers wanted to twitch to her gun, but it took Maka two gulps of air to remind herself that he wasn’t her goal.

 

Instead, they ran past hallways and doors with their little windows drawn shut, past familiar labs. Past her own office, though she’d never tell Soul that. Instead, she made her way to the director’s office -- to Suchong’s. She had to get the information on how to get out.

 

Finally, the door was before her. Maka glanced around. There wasn’t anything to break the door open with. She supposed she could shoot the lock, but the resulting noise would be too loud, especially if Suchong was still in the facility. Maybe a strong piece of wood, a plank, _something._ Soul’s Plasmid, she dwelled upon for a brief second, before she dismissed it with a mild feeling of guilt at the tail end of the thought. Running out of options, Maka allowed herself the brief second to just _jostle_ the doorknob, if even to just get the idea out of her mind.

 

What she didn’t expect, was for the handle to slide smoothly, before the entire door quietly swung open, not unlike the flutter of a curtain.

 

“It’s unlocked,” Maka said redundantly, too bewildered to care. Suchong wasn’t necessarily paranoid, but he certainly rarely left his devices and articles unchecked. “He has to be nearby,” she added quietly.

 

“Got it, I’ll stay here,” Soul said firmly. He tapped the side of his head, before raising his pistol in what she assumed he hoped was a comforting gesture. “Go.”

 

She didn’t need further prompting. Maka slipped inside the office, flicking on the desk lamp, bathing the mahogany wood with artificial yellow. One by one, she pulled each drawer open, sifting through the contents. There wasn’t much information to be found, a few words here and there. The production of the Little Girls (she winced at the thought), the woman who took it over, the progress of ADAM, and more often than not, her own name -- along with other researchers who worked for him -- in the mix. There were also letters exchanged with whom she _knew_ was with Frank Fontaine, the other enigma before he had passed away a year earlier.  Trades, research, something about an ace in the hole, and…

 

“Bathyspheres?” Maka said quietly. Soul only hummed in response, still on lookout. Maka shook her head and moved to her next target, the filing cabinets. She scoured through them, dextrous fingers tabbing through files as quickly as she could. Aside from a few words, she couldn’t find anything else. As she reached for the next cabinet, the door resisted her tug, the sound of the lock clanking loudly against her struggles.   _“Damn it,_ ” she muttered. “That _bastard.”_

 

“Maka? Are you okay?”

 

“Fine,” she called back to him. She didn’t know how to pick a lock, that’s for sure. Furthermore, she didn’t have the tools to do the deed. She cursed -- she _knew_ the information she needed was beyond the _stupid_ lock. But if Suchong’s office was unlocked, it was probably with him, and that meant she needed to get _out_ as soon as possible.

 

“Did you find anything?” Was Soul’s rather unhelpful hiss from the doorway.

 

“No, I didn’t. Something about -- I don’t really know.”

 

“What is it?”

 

“I -- ADAM research, the Little Girl program, Bathyspheres--”

 

“They’re closed.”

 

“-- I know,” Maka said impatiently. “It was on the radio.” She remembered when they first escaped, the crowd at the bathysphere station before she’d dragged Soul aside. What happened there, what would’ve happened if they’d tried that? It was just like the elevators at the Kashmir, backed up to hell. Maybe they were all slaughtered. Maka shuddered.  It wasn’t surprising that, at this point, any public forms of quick transportation would be all but abandoned. So _why_ was it mentioned in these reports, to Frank Fontaine of all people?

 

And then, it dawned on her -- how Suchong always seemed to have fresh supplies, how Fontaine could run a _department store,_ of all things, where resources were supposed to be limited, _bathyspheres_ , the public -- only? -- transportation available...

 

“ _Is there a smuggling ring in Rapture?”_

 

“Huh?” they both said, once again in perfect synchronicity.

 

“You first,” Soul said, his arms crossing over his torso.

 

“I just, I think - the bathyspheres, didn’t Fontaine program them? And he runs a _department store_ , for it to be mentioned here, I just wonder.” Her voice trailed off, and it took a few seconds to register that Soul had said the exact same as she had. “What’s your reason?”

 

Soul chewed his lip. “A friend of mine. I’ve probably mentioned her before. She was always vague about where she worked, something about I wouldn’t want to know. But it was never presented in a _you won’t understand_ way. At least I don’t think.  Just now, I made the connection with those PSA’s, about smuggling and any conspirators would be punished -- and I was thinking the same thing too. Bathyspheres in specific, the only mobile network -- Fontaine, being able to just sell things...”

 

Maka frowned -- it was falling into place, almost too conveniently. “You think?”

 

Soul scrunched his nose. “I think it’s worth a shot to at least _check_ the bathyspheres. Who knows?”

 

Maka nodded, straightening and brushing down her pants. “You talk, let’s go.” And with that, she carefully closed each opened drawer, returning them to their previous state. Suchong hopefully wouldn’t notice, she thought as she closed the door behind her with a quiet snap. And then it was back out, running down the flights of stairs, through the corridor --

 

Soul’s hand grabbed hers, and she froze on instinct.

 

Before she could question him, he was staring at a door. More precisely, he was staring through the window, one that was drawn closed when they were first passing through. His grip was tight, almost _clammy_ within seconds, and it was enough for Maka to breathe in and look inside.

 

The sight was hideous.

 

A body remained on the table, gratuitous amounts of blood still dripping from the desk onto the ground. While the large section that almost seemed _missing_ from the middle of his torso was telling enough, Maka could only focus on the black-stained-red mess of hair that she was all too familiar with.

 

“Suchong,” she heard herself say.

 

It was an odd feeling, one of dread, mild relief, but also sympathy. It looked like a brutal way to go, with the cavity missing from his body, all that remained of him a bloody mess on the table. Soul’s grip was _truly_ clammy now, and rightfully so.

 

“That poor bastard,” he muttered. Maka could only stare, with the same cold feeling in her stomach -- and yet, as she watched, she found herself unsettlingly calm. If anything, it was reassurance that _everyone was going to die_ if they remained here. Even Suchong, who knew about the smuggling ring.

 

She squeezed his hand. “Soul.”

 

“We’ll be okay,” he repeated, as if he knew exactly what she was thinking. Maybe he did -- he _was_ the one with the plasmid, afterall. “If I’m right, I know someone who works there. God, Liz has so _much talking to do_.”

 

Maka blinked. The name was familiar -- she had come up in conversation before. But she hadn’t met his friend. Mild jealousy - of all things, of all times - stabbed her in the gut; and while in the back of her mind said ‘ _if not now, then when?’_ , another part was all too aware of how he held her hand, and the fact that he didn’t let go until the facility was long behind them.

 

-

 

The streets were quiet, even more so than usual. Maka couldn’t shake the chilling feeling that it may have had something to do with her boss’s untimely demise, but she wasn’t sure. All she knew was that there weren’t many splicers roaming about. Either they’d all been killed, or they’d retreated for the time being. Maka was much more willing to bet on the former.

 

The two made their way through the streets, not once speaking to each other. The image was still burned in the back of her eyes; Suchong, over the desk, missing the middle of his body. Clearly dead. What had done it, _how_? The last she heard, there was talk about figuring out how to protect the Little Sisters -- because there was never enough ADAM around.

 

His fingers grasped her wrist; Maka froze reflexively, fingers twitching towards her holstered gun.

 

From the shadows, a shambling creature. A splicer -- the first she’s seen since the initial riots. Its deranged state was further along than she’d ever observed, even in her own laboratory. Her skin was a sickly green, hanging in limp sheets off her limbs, her body. At least, that was what she could see - her face was partially obscured by her mask, bulbous dress, once white, stained dirt grey. Pieces and tares decorated the fabric, leaving loose ribbons of material trailing behind her. The scariest part was the protrusions from her body - bits of bone, too-long nails, lumps forming along the ridges of her skin.

 

For the first time, fear pulsed in Maka’s veins.

 

Soul’s hand had already left her, cloaked in the same, strange, green light. His fingers flexed, a spark of electric blue forming between them; he raised his hand, outstretched, the electricity cracking -

 

Maka sank two bullets into the splicer -- once in the brain, the other on the right, symmetrical to where her heart would’ve been.

 

An inhumane screech ripped through the sky before she fell, twitching, to the ground.

 

Soul stared at the body, just until the twitching ceased. He rounded on Maka. “Why?”

 

“The implanted muscle is where the Plasmid is from, controlling the ADAM,” Maka explained stiffly. “And the frontal lobe fashions the ADAM, manifesting it.”

 

Soul grabbed her arm, his grip iron. She hardly noticed. “I _know_ how Plasmids work, Maka.”

 

Maka stared at him, took in the fright he was so desperately trying to hide. “You promised you wouldn’t use your Plasmid.”

 

His stare was withering, wrought with questions and implications. Finally, his grip loosened, fingers clamped loosely around her wrist.

 

It took several moments before he broke the silence.

 

“I haven’t gone as far as the Bathyspheres,” he said. Soul would never admit he was _scared,_ but Maka could read the terseness of his words, the stiffness in his body language.  “I don’t know what it’s like there -- it could be worse.”

 

“It’s fine,” Maka said quietly. “There’s two of us, this time.”

 

He gave a brief, heartbreaking smile, one that never reached his eyes, before setting out once more. Maka followed, her wrist never once released from his grip.

 

It took several moments before she could finally find the courage to voice the discomfort that had been nagging at her. “Are they all dressed like that, like it’s still New Years?” she murmured.

 

To Soul’s credit, he never broke pace once. “Yeah,” he muttered. “All the ones I ran into, anyways.”

 

“That’s horrible.”

 

“I guess not all of them were lucky enough to escape. Those that did probably never made it home.” His voice was clipped, detached. There was something in there too -- _shame_.

 

Maka twisted her hand, just enough to capture his fingers. She gave him what she hoped was a reassuring squeeze. “I wouldn’t have let you get that far.”

 

“I know,” Soul said quietly. “I _know_ , but it doesn’t mean it wouldn’t have happened. People are just trying to survive.”

 

“It’s my fault.”

 

“It’s not. People did what they had to to survive -- and that includes me.”

 

It was odd. It was like they were both guilty, trying to apologize -- and for a second, a small hiccup of a laugh escaped her. How _ridiculous._ They were chasing this loose end -- something that might not even lead to _anything_ \-- and here they were, trying to _feel_ something and yet not at the same time.

 

She squeezed his hand; he squeezed back.

 

“Don’t use your Plasmid, okay?”

 

His other hand ghosted over his stomach, where behind the button up shirt lay greenish skin. His shoulders merely lifted, then dropped.

 

.

 

His hand squeezed hers, harder than the reassuring ones from the past. It was a warning. Maka stopped cold on her feet. He turned and gave a soulless grin -- not out of pleasure, not to reassure her.

 

Sure enough, just beyond the corner of the wall, was another Splicer. It, too, seemed to perk at her observation, but maybe it was because it, too, had the same sensory plasmid that Soul did.

 

_He was a walking target._

 

And then, a hideous screech -- one Maka had never heard before.

 

“What the hell?” said Soul, and as the words left his mouth, Maka saw more movement from the shadows.

 

“You’re shitting me,” she hissed. It must’ve been some joke, a cliche. Like a B-rated horror film, two more splicers shambled from the darkness. Except it was very real, she noted, as from the nails-turned-claws were glints of red. The big, bulbous dresses and tuxedos made it that much worse, surrealistic, and the masks made them seem ever-more sinister.

 

“Maka--”

 

“There isn’t such thing. Splicers can’t _summon_ each other,” she exclaimed. _So why?_ She drew her gun, cocking it once. _How?_

 

She sank two rounds in the closest one, the two trigger points. She watched as it collapsed, greenish fluid leaking from its brain like luminescent ooze. Maka’s stomach churned as the other splicer stepped over the corpse, each step prompting another splurt of green to burst from the bullet holes.

 

“Keep firing,” Maka hissed as she raised her gun again. Her next two shots were less precise. The kickback stung from the repeated shots -- she’d used a firing range before, but never in this situation. Similar shots rang from beside her, as deafening as her own. For a second, she thought about his wrists -- how she used to admire them when they were poised over a keyboard, dancing lightly across the ivory keys. Dainty. Would all these rounds ruin his wrists?

 

And then he jerked, very visibly, and Maka’s heart hammered in her chest. “Behind us,” Soul cried, his voice higher in distress. “Maka.”

 

She stepped against him, her back pressing into his. God, there were so _many_. _How did this happen?_ Was he truly a beacon, attracting them? Surely, their gunfire was also alerting more splicers. _What the hell --_ they weren’t supposed to be attracted to _noise._ She’d researched it, she’d _known._

 

_How?_

 

Before she could even begin questioning it, if anything to give her something to _think_ about as each splicer fell, one by one, almost comically, like ragdolls -- Soul gave a grunt, one she’d never heard before.

 

They were closing in on him, an unstoppable wave of _people,_ dressed in their blacks and tans and reds, masks growing closer and closer. Sure, several were on the ground, too, a congealed mess of viscous ADAM in a puddle around them, constantly trodded upon by worn heels and loafers.

 

Soul gave her one more heartless smile.

 

 _Sorry,_ she heard, barely a whisper, before his fingers snapped with electricity.

 

There was that putrid smell again - snapping and frying of flesh, bodies, of the ADAM that coursed through the Splicer’s veins. Those same shrill shrieks that were somehow more ear piercing than their gunfire. Soul was probably screaming, and she might’ve been, too - she didn’t know. All she knew was that the smell was overwhelming and the odd sound of _plopping_ and _squishing_ was all around them.

 

The electricity fizzled out as he gasped. A ring of corpses surrounded them, some still twitching as grated moans escaped them. Maka ran to him at once, watching as he clutched his hand, panting. It was still vaguely green, like a sinister glove His nails were yellow and the skin was pebbled with small pustules. She couldn’t find the words, didn’t know what to say. Instead, she ran her hand down his back, his trembling breaking her heart.

 

And, of all things, she spotted more movement in the shadows.

 

 _What should she do?_ Alert him now? Let him use his Plasmid again? For the first time in her life, Maka felt truly frozen, paralyzed in conflicting thoughts and fears. Maybe in the back of her mind, she was ready to accept defeat, ready to just lay down her gun and _rest._

 

But Maka wasn’t. Maybe she was too stubborn -- she’s come so far, she survived so much -- but she wanted to _live._

 

“Sou-”

 

_Bang._

 

The splicer fell before her.

 

The shots came from neither she nor he, but his head had snapped up at the sounds. The alleyway was frighteningly quiet, after the cacophony of sound and struggle that had pierced the air. Maka finally found her breath as she swallowed through her shallow pants.  “Are you okay?” she managed.

 

“Better yet,” was the unfamiliar voice as the bearer stepped around a new corpse, “what the _hell_ are you doing here?”

 

She was holding a gun, Maka realized, and she could smell the gunpowder that emanated from its recent use. She stepped around the corpse -- and immediately, though she seemed confident, Maka could tell there was _force_ behind the newcomer’s step.

 

And then, of all things, a grin spread across Soul’s face.

  
“Long time no see, Liz.”


	5. Chapter 5

**0 Days before the Riots.**

 

_Maka is just hanging up her coat when she hears a hesitant knock behind her. Her mind is still so filled with data and formulas from the labs that it doesn’t register that 9:00 at night is an odd time for a house call. So when she distractedly opens the door she is surprised to see a head of frosty white hair._

 

_All thoughts of the office instantly leave her mind. “Soul,” she breathes, tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear. “Hi.”_

 

_“Hey, can I come in?” Maka notes that he seems just as wary as she is. Somehow this makes her feel better._

 

_“Yes. Of course.” She widens the door and lets him slip past her into the apartment. There is an awkward shuffle as he struggles to take off his shoes in the hall but then quietly proceeds her into the kitchen._

 

_They wordlessly sit down at her small coffee table and the silence is stifling._

 

_“Look, Soul, I’m sorry--”_

 

_“Maka, I want to apologize--”_

 

_Maka laughs and Soul smiles. “I’m sorry,” he says. “Whatever differences we have… I don’t want it to come between our friendship. I never want that.”_

 

_“I know. I’m sorry too.”_

 

_They smile shyly at each other for a moment until Soul coughs and looks away. He reaches into his back pocket, procuring a scrunched poster. “I was thinking we could go to the New Years party together.” He smoothes out the paper against his knee before holding it in front of her. A masquerade party.  “At the Kashmir.”_

 

_Maka rests her chin on her hand, lips twitching.  “That’s where we first met, remember?”_

 

_“I remember.”_

 

_An evening of dance isn’t her first choice, but maybe it’s a sign for her to unwind. It’s also his way of saying sorry, she supposes, and she doesn’t really mind his company. “I would love to go with you,” Maka says with a smile._

 

_Soul grins. “I’ll pick you up at ten, then?”_

 

_Parties aren’t usually her cup of tea, but… maybe, with him, it won’t be so bad. Her heart swells in her chest and her mind supplies her with images of colourful dress with jewel toned fabrics, swaying in muted light. Maybe this was just what they needed to get their relationship back on track, she thinks. A night they could remember with a fond memories._

 

_“Perfect.”_

 

**====**

 

“You piece of _shit_ ,” the newcomer hissed as she stabbed the butt of her rifle into Soul’s side. “What the _fuck_ are you doing?”

 

“Trying to find you,” he answered honestly. Maka felt speechless as the two embraced one another. Her fingers twitched -- this must’ve been her, Liz, the person she’s heard of once or twice before in passing. They finally let go of each other, and the blonde slung her rifle over her shoulder.

 

“And this is-”

 

“-Maka.”

 

“Ah, _her_.” Maka tensed as Liz gave her a _very_ obvious once over. She was expecting something, _anything_ , but instead, Liz threw her hair over her shoulder. She turned back to Soul.  “Why are you here?” she asked again.

 

Soul, too,  looked a bit helpless. He shot a glance to Maka, who only shrugged in response. “Looking for you, I said that.”

 

“Yeah, why?”

 

“Are you a smuggler?” Maka asked pointblank. Liz gaped, her head whipping from Soul to her rapidly. Finally, her mouth closed, and though the hesitation was easily readable, Maka sighed. “I work for Suchong. I know about it.”

 

Soul’s eyebrow rose. Maka stared at Liz, hoping her bluff wasn’t discernable. Luckily, Liz’s shoulders deflated with a sigh. “If you know Suchong, then you already know your answer.”

 

It was Soul’s turn to gape. “This whole time? Why didn’t you _tell_ me?”

 

Liz’s turn was so fierce it almost gave Maka whiplash. “Why would I? It's _illegal._ I didn’t want to involve you, too.” There was mild fondness in her voice that made Maka mildly uncomfortable, enough for her to curl her toes in her place. But the thought vanished as the taller blonde straightened. “Can we get out of here? Being out in the open isn’t safe. Not now.”

 

They didn’t need to be told twice. Maka and Soul followed the girl into the Bathysphere network, the area shut down almost completely. “No one’s using them,” Liz explained. “They’ve been locked down since the riots started. Only Ryan’s allowed to authorize. No one’s really used them though, not recently.”

 

“Not even-”

 

“- No, not even him,” Liz said hastily. Soul narrowed his eyes. Maka wasn’t sure what the exchange was, but she already felt uncomfortable enough as it was. Maka followed in silence instead as they walked along the bathysphere track, said nothing as Liz fished through her pockets before withdrawing a key, several loud _clunks_ resonating as she opened a partially-hidden door along the tunnels.

 

Liz spent no time locking the doors before slumping against the wall of their sanctuary, her rifle sliding off her shoulder. Inside were food rations and opened cans stowed in a corner, contents cleaned out almost unnaturally. Liz gave them both a look, before patting the ground. Maka and Soul exchanged a glance before sitting. “So what have you been up to?” Liz asked, almost lamely, and the image of the tall blonde, swooping in with her rifle almost New York gangster style, dissipated from Maka’s mind.

 

Soul wasted no time launching into a recounting of everything -- the bombing at the Kashmir, the week they spent hiding in their apartments. Liz listened along, in an almost empty way, though that was only speculation on Maka’s behalf.

 

“Very few people made it back to their houses,” Liz muttered. “The radio transmission told us so.”

 

“This was a good place to hide out,” Maka said. She didn’t know what compelled her to speak through her discomfort, but there was something in Liz’s empty gaze that nudged aside her jealousy and instead invoked her sympathy.

 

“Yeah,  Patti insisted. Because of all the transmissions we were able to fix up.” Liz’s finger drew aimless circles into the ground, her eyes downcast. To Maka, it was another vaguely familiar name.  Usually, it was associated with Liz -- her sister, if she recalled correctly.

 

Soul voiced her unspoken thoughts. “Speaking of which, where is she?”

 

The circles became more furious, Liz’s expression sliding to stone.

 

Soul drew a quiet breath. “I’m so sorry.”

 

“She wasn’t scared, not once.” Liz’s voice, for the first time since Maka had met her, trembled. “I told myself I wouldn’t be scared anymore, either.”

 

They fell into silence. Maka and Soul both pretended they didn’t see the moisture drop from Liz’s face, splashing into the ground, as her tracing finger cut through each little teardrop and spread it across the cement floor.

 

“They swarmed us,” Maka said quietly. “That’s new.”

 

Liz’s finger hesitated, almost questioningly. “Maka was -- er -- directly researching ADAM and its functions on humans,” Soul offered to break the tension.

 

“I’m a smuggler. I have no right to judge,” Liz said knowingly, voice thankfully somewhat stronger than it had been earlier. “But I think I know the explanation to that. Kid thinks Ryan programmed it… while Suchong was working for him.”

 

Maka’s hand slipped, her pistol clattering on the ground. _“What?”_ she exclaimed.

 

“Yeah, Suchong started working for Ryan in secret,” Liz said quietly. “Sorry if you didn’t know.”

 

“No, I knew about that -- you’re saying _Kid_?” She could remember him, very vaguely, in the back of her mind. Black hair, quiet disposition. She knew he was smart. “As in Andrew Ryan’s older kid!?”

 

“You know him?” Soul said, startled.

 

“You _too_?” Maka said, louder than him. How much did she just not _know?_

 

“Yeah, that Kid. He’s in this complex too, the bathyspheres. Hiding. He’s been doing more research on the Splicers on his own, and telling me -- through this.” Liz held up a worn walkie-talkie. “It was our deal. We’d bring him food and supplies, he’d figure out what was going on and when it’d be safe to come out.”

 

Maka sat back in shock. _Kid_ was involved? She’d only met him twice, both times when Ryan had dropped by the office when Suchong switched over. They’d only talked those few times, but she’d always gathered he was smart. There was something about him that was somewhat defiant too. He knew what was _really_ going on in behind the scenes, the power struggles. He knew all the scandals. And if he knew Soul, then maybe he was, at one point, a quiet ATLAS supporter.

 

“So why is he here, and not with Ryan?” Soul asked quietly. “You’d think the mayor’s son would stick with him.”

 

 _That was who they were talking about,_ Maka realized. Liz shrugged. “You know Kid. He may be his son, but he doesn’t have to agree with him. And I don’t think Ryan likes him very much. After what happened with ATLAS, though, I don’t think he supports anyone.”

 

Her suspicions confirmed, Maka pressed her palms against the cold ground. “So why is he still here?”

 

Liz shrugged. “I think he wanted to see what happened, see if he could seize control when the dust settles. He’s putting his all into researching and figuring out what’s going on. Also, I _think_ he doesn’t know about the whole,” Liz made a few hand gestures, before sighing. “If he does, he’s never mentioned it. Which I guess is a good thing, mayor’s son and all that. Though -- I wonder,” Liz’s gaze seemed to unfocus; she stared unseeingly beyond Maka’s shoulder. “-- lately, he’s been saying that it’s useless.”

 

Soul and Maka exchanged a knowing glance. At least she wouldn’t have to say _I told you so._ “That’s why I’m here, Liz,” Soul said slowly. “We want out.”

 

Liz paused, her lower lip disappearing beneath her teeth. “What?”

 

Soul cleared his throat. “Could you smuggle us out?”

 

The taller blonde seemed to finally refocus, her sharp gaze piercing into them. “ _Why_? There’s nothing left up there for us. It’s why we're here in the first place.”

 

“But it’s like what Kid said,” Maka said quietly. “It’s useless to stay.”

 

Something vaguely _defeatist_ lived in Liz’s gaze -- the very emotion Maka was close to succumbing to not so long ago. Liz looked at Maka, then at Soul. “Are you sure?” the question was mostly aimed at Soul, who squared his shoulders and looked away.

 

“I guess the missing Evans’ will make a return after five years.” He gave a bitter laugh. “Maybe they’ll make a program about how I was washed up on an island in the meantime.”

 

Maka had always known, suspected, but this time, the confirmation of the theory wasn’t as triumphant. The _emotion_ in his voice was tired, defeated. They’d all left the surface for one reason or another. This must’ve been his.

 

It made sense, the plasmid, the gun, the _fear_.

 

Liz stood up, startling Maka. “If that’s what you want,” she conceded. “I’ll escort you.”

 

This time, Maka could feel it -- the fear within Liz. The other woman hadn’t mentioned venturing very far beyond the bathyspheres, just that she’d survived. There was something in her that was deeply terrified, as much as the other woman tried to hide it. And based off the way Soul stood up, how he held himself, he saw it too.

 

“Thanks, Liz. Really.”

 

The other Thompson slung her rifle over her shoulder. “Yeah well, it’s what Patti would’ve wanted.”

 

.

 

The carnage through the bathysphere tunnels was infinitely worse. The new thing - _swarming,_ Maka supposed -- must’ve been common now. Suddenly, the empty streets she’d seen earlier made it that much more sinister. Maka at one point also supported Ryan - the cause and the vision he had for creating Rapture in the first place. It was supposed to be paradise, a utopia for the geniuses to live in together. But geniusness lead to madness, as it had with Suchong -- as it had with Ryan, if he was controlling the splicers to his own pleasure. Maka began to wonder if it’d been behind the killings from the getgo, his own way to get back at ATLAS for the disruption of New Years.

 

Or maybe it’d been new, created in that week of nothingness. Who knew what Suchong was doing then. Another stab of guilt flooded Maka -- if she’d retrieved her research, _killed_ him -- but no, she wasn’t a murderer. He got what was coming, anyways.

 

No, instead, the thought that, if he’d been around any longer, Soul would not only have been a splicer, but one under Ryan’s control.

 

 _That_ thought had Maka tightening her grip around his hand.

 

“Ow,” Soul whispered. Maka instantly let go, a sorry blowing through her lips. For a second, she thought she saw Liz laugh -- but maybe it was just a way for the other woman to break tension, tension she was clearly carrying through her stiff legs and upper body.

 

It felt like they’d been walking for forever. Maka had lost all track of time, their desolate footsteps the only steady counter to give her some hint as to how far they walked. Like this, Maka could truly appreciate how far the bathysphere transit went, the path was much longer on foot than otherwise. It was then that Liz stopped. “This way,” she said, turning the corner.

 

Maka stared. The emergency lights didn’t reach this far into the tunnels, and so they were left gazing at a yawning abyss of black. Soul’s hand twitched in hers, almost reflexively, but to her relief, he didn’t withdraw his grasp. Liz fumbled around in her coat, before swearing under her breath. Then her hand, too, began to glow a shade of green.

 

Maka ignored the glance that Soul threw at her.

 

“Left my flashlight,” Liz said nonchalantly, waving her glowing hand around. This time, Soul did squeeze her hand. Maka squeezed idly back, taking the first step into the dim shade of green. The carnage had lessened, as if the splicers didn’t bother going down this path.

 

The silence was unbearable -- with the vaguely green glow and the absolutely overpowering stench of sickly-sweet and blood, Maka finally swallowed. “Where are we going?” She murmured.

 

“The smuggling site,” Liz answered. “No one’s been here since the riots began.” Though Maka couldn’t see her expression, she thought that the dim outline of green shifted around her jaw. “Everyone’s waiting. Hoping things will go back to normal.”

 

“Would turning them on alert Ryan?” Soul asked.

 

Liz’s shoulders lifted then fell. “Probably.” And then, in somewhat comical synchronicity, both Soul and Liz stopped at the same time. Liz’s Plasmid grew stronger, just for a second, enough for Maka to make out the feet before them.

 

He charged first, his odd twitchy movements only accentuated by the uncannily prim attire the Splicer wore. He lunged, the claw-like protrusions that were once his hands slashing forward. Liz swore and ducked to the side, her plasmid-cloaked hand raised mid-strike, before her hand clenched into a fist, opting instead to shove the butt of her rifle deep into the splicer’s side.

 

“Soul!” she called as she twirled the gun into a shooting position. A round went off, loud and ringing into Maka’s right ear, and she watched in almost slow motion as the head of the splicer flung back from the impact, spewing green fluid.

 

The next shot was just as deafening as the creature slumped.

 

“Shit,” Liz spat. Her side was splattered with blood, soaking through her undershirt and staining her jacket with red. Soul bound forward until Liz held up a hand. “I’m fine,” she insisted. “I have gauze back at my place.”

 

“Your ADAM?” Soul asked, just loud enough for Maka to hear.

 

“Ran out. I guess I’m lucky I still have juice left to light up the place. Besides, I don’t want to turn into _that_.” Her head jerked towards the still-twitching corpse before her. Liz tilted her head back, catching Soul’s gaze. “What about you, though? I don’t think there’s any ADAM on the surface--” Her blue eyes caught Maka’s.  “--Or is there?”

 

Maka shook her head. She couldn’t help the stab of relief that she felt. It really was a good thing that she left her research behind -- there was no need to replicate what she’d help start. Liz gave a small grin before straightening, her hand cloaking in green. “Not much farther now,” she promised.

 

Maka let her gaze drift to the side, watching as the cement gave way to brick, then general disrepair. With every step they took, the more she realized just _exactly_ what was happening. Maka hadn’t been in the surface for almost eight years. She hardly remembered her life before Rapture. Her parents had split, she’d lost her research grant -- there was nothing left for her. Returning would be difficult. _Unheard of_. How could she explain returning after so many years gone?

 

It wasn’t as if she had any second thoughts -- but Rapture had truly become her home.

 

It was easy to say she should leave, easier back then in their apartment. Maka could finally really understand Soul’s hesitation to leave. She hadn’t thought about life back on the surface, merely survival. Without thinking, she took his hand again. Well, maybe it wouldn’t be a complete restart.

 

She too could sense something in Soul. This was it, they would leave it all behind. The pristine underwater utopia that was Rapture, to face the horrors of the surface.

 

The green glow went out. For a second, Maka thought there might’ve been another splicer, and she’d be at the disadvantage again. Instead, she could vaguely see light at the end of the tunnel. Maka couldn’t help it; her heartbeat sped up, but whether it was from excitement, anticipation, or fear, she couldn’t tell. All she knew that _this was it._

 

The light grew brighter with every step they took.

 

The bathysphere tunnel fell away to what appeared to be a junkyard. Maka blinked. The illusions of Rapture was lost here: no shining white walls, reflecting the artificial street lights against the glass dome they resided in. Rubble of all sorts remained. Hints of when Ryan first constructed the city was evident -- along with other various bits and pieces of garbage.

 

And then, she noticed, a way out.

 

It was a double enclosure, two pieces of glass and what appeared to be a drain at the bottom. Leading to it was a support structure similar to the bathysphere network: an overhead cable, with the circular pods hanging off it, as if strung through. Liz stared ahead, unseeing.

 

Finally, she exhaled. Her breath trembled, and Maka couldn’t help but sympathize with her.

 

“This is it,” Liz said. “It’s not glamorous.”

 

The taller blonde lead the way, marching in a frigid manner to the closest bathysphere. Maka couldn’t will her feet to move. She was numb. All this time, leading up to now -- and she felt nothing. Not even determination. Just emptiness.

 

Soul squeezed her hand. “You okay?”

 

Maka looked down to the hand clasped in hers, then to his other one, vaguely green and pebbled. “Are you?”

 

Soul’s hand twitched. “If you mean the Plasmid…” He sighed. “You can’t reverse engineer it?”

 

“Nope,” Maka said. “Not without my research.”

 

“Would it be mean if I said I want it, then?” He said humourlessly. Maka treated him to a weak smile, one that hopefully reflected the light flutters of her heart. “I’ll just make something up. Freak allergic reaction.”

 

“You might not be able to play piano ever again,” Maka murmured.

 

Soul shrugged. “I’m coming back from the dead. I’m sure I’ll find other hobbies.”

 

She couldn’t help the small giggle that burst through her lips. Her quiet laughter faded when the sound of pressurized hissing filled the otherwise unnatural stillness. Liz straightened, a hand on top of the convex glass case. “In you go,” she said somewhat stiffly.

 

The two exchanged glances again, before Soul gave her hand a squeeze. “This is it,” he said again.

 

Maka’s breaths felt short. It was only a week ago when she’d been asked to go to the Kashmir Ball with him. It was only a week ago when he first killed someone. It was only a few hours ago when him being on her couch was _normal_ , when they’d share a breakfast and waited to see if they could make a life here after the civil war.

 

The circumstances that brought them together were almost funny, in hindsight.

 

She finally let go of his hand. It took three second for Soul to scramble in, sitting on the plush velvet seating -- so foreign against the backdrop of junk, the trimmed red so different from the bloodied crimson she’d grown used to seeing. Maka was careful to place her hand along the ridges of the bathysphere, her foot finding purchase against the rim of the machine. “I got you,” Soul murmured, and she felt his hands snake around her waist before he hoisted her up. She breathed her thanks before turning to Liz.

 

The blonde shook her head. “I’m not coming.”

 

“What?” Soul exclaimed, scrambling forward. Liz held a hand out, effectively halting him in his tracks.

 

“I said I was only escorting you. It’s fine -- really.” The woman took another, almost unsteady, breath, before exhaling loudly. Her outstretched hand found her opposite hip, where her shirt was decorated with darkened splotches of blood. Maka watched as she sniffled, so quiet, she wondered if Soul caught it too, before she turned on her heel, walking to a big control panel.

 

Fear for this woman, who she hardly _knew_ , shot through her. “If you do this, Ryan’ll know,” Maka insisted. It was _suicide_. If the bathysphere activated -- Ryan would know, and he’d send the splicers -- and--  

 

No matter what she said, Liz didn’t hesitate, not until she was in front of the control panel, hand outstretched to grasp the handle. “Come with us,” Soul insisted, distress alight across his face. “Please.”

 

The blonde turned. She seemed to think for a brief second, before her hand grasped the handle. “It’s a nice thought. But I wasn’t lying earlier. There isn’t anything left for me up there.” Liz sighed. “Besides. I have to get Kid out, too. There won’t be a lot of time in between when Ryan notices and they come. Also--” she took a small breath. “-- Patti’s here.”

 

The silence that followed was tense, strung back like a bow. “You’re pulling a fucking heroic sacrifice?” Soul finally said, bewildered.

 

Liz’s smile only grew larger, one of the saddest smiles Maka had ever seen.

 

“That’s not like you at all,” Soul continued quietly.

 

“So is me not being scared,” Liz said. “But you know what’s funny? I’m fucking _terrified._ ” And before either could say anything, she pulled the lever. Loud buzzes overtook their ears, red flashing lights around them. Soul scrambled forward, as if he were about to reach out, but Liz only held up a hand, a vaguely wavering smile persistent on her face.

 

As their small pod rose up, and a glass case slid its way down, sealing their pod with a hiss, Maka could only hear one, quiet phrase.

 

_Take care of him._

 

 _I will,_ Maka thought.

 

She gripped his hand tighter, clammy and cold. She couldn’t hear it, but their bathysphere jerked forward, suspended along the wire of the network.  The glass of the double-enclosure slid open, just fast enough to absorb the small pod as it sank through the walls. Maka placed a hand against Soul’s back, as their vision grew distorted from the rising water. She watched as the vague figure of Liz finally turned, slowly beginning its pilgrimage back into the tunnels. There was another lurch, and then, the sound of thrusters, as bubbles rushed up along the glass, distorting the world outside them, bringing them into the deep water that seemed to stretch into the deep beyond.

 

It took time, but eventually, Soul slumped against the back of the pod, his hand still trembling in hers. At some point, he stopped shaking. His breathing slowed and steadied. Together, they watched the blend of turquoise, gold, and red -- a city they once called their home -- grow fainter and fainter, farther and farther away. And then, it was swallowed by black.

 

Maka closed her eyes.

 

_I will._

 


End file.
